


Rhyme/Reason

by mediumrawr



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: D/s, F/F, Food Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 12:31:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mediumrawr/pseuds/mediumrawr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>They are in the kitchen now. Myka suspected so by the sense memory of walking there alone, and her suspicion was confirmed by certain sounds: a cupboard opened, a stove tested, a dish set down. They have only been alone in this cabin for two afternoons, one night, and one morning, but the wood under her bare knees feels like home. That might, she reflects, be the company.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"You're being very good for me, darling," the <em>company</em> says to her.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Yes, Helena," Myka replies. She can't see Helena - she can't see anything, because Helena's too frighteningly competent to blindfold her into anything less than total darkness - but she's not worried.</em>
</p><p>Being alone in a secluded cabin with Helena Wells is either a really bad or a really good idea. </p><p>Written for the Porn Battle XIV prompts: <em>lips, lick, accent, D/s, subMyka</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Rhyme/Reason

They are in the kitchen now. Myka suspected so by the sense memory of walking there alone, and her suspicion was confirmed by certain sounds: a cupboard opened, a stove tested, a dish set down. They have only been alone in this cabin for two afternoons, one night, and one morning, but the wood under her bare knees feels like home. That might, she reflects, be the company.

"You're being very good for me, darling," the _company_ says to her.

"Yes, Helena," Myka replies. She can't see Helena - she can't see anything, because Helena's too frighteningly competent to blindfold her into anything less than total darkness - but she's not worried. Naked, blindfolded, kneeling, and bound, in the company of one of the most dangerous women in the entire world, she feels safer than she ever has before.

She hears Helena say, "Open," but she doesn't understand at first. She adjusts to move her legs farther apart and only stops when she hears Helena's laugh. Two fingers brush her lips, and she understands.

Helena presses something into her mouth, and Myka tastes it. It's creamy, savory - delicious, but she can't place it. The unfamiliarity makes her frown.

"Liver pâté," says Helena.

Myka stops. Liver, really?

"Darling, trust me."

There being no appeal she is more defenseless to, she chews and swallows. "Good," she says. Helena rewards her with a blistering, open-mouthed kiss. Myka resists the overwhelming need to arch into it and, when it's over, her mistress rewards her for that with a hot tongue tracing her left ear.

"Very good," Helena says, somewhere in front of her. Myka doesn't blame her for sounding a little breathless. "Now this."

She opens her mouth again and feels a glass on her lower lip. Something pours into her mouth, just a sip of it, and then the glass is removed.

"Guess," says Helena.

She swallows it down, and says, confidently, "Wine."

"You can do better than that."

Myka wilts. She hadn't been paying attention. The idea of disappointing Helena, Helena who was so certain that she would know the answer, is what makes her wilt. She wants so much for-

"One more try," says Helena, and offers another sip.

She determines not to waste this opportunity. She considers it for a long time. The taste is thick and strong. She swallows. "Red," she begins, and is rewarded by a soft, pleased noise. Myka thinks back to every time Helena has tried to elevate her tastes. "Shiraz?"

Hands begin to trail the inside of Myka's thighs. She sighs, and she thinks she feels Helena's weight shift above her.

"A - Australian, not French," she decides, and feels those hands slide up to tease around her clit. "Didn't you like - um - didn't you like that Yering Station?"

"Darling, I so adore you," Helena responds, laughing with true delight. Myka's reward, it turns out, is a simple brush directly over her clit and then a finger sliding deep inside her, curling just right, just once, and then withdrawing.

Myka will not whine for more, though her need asks her to. Her mistress gives exactly what she means to, Myka reminds herself, and it always pays off in the end. (God, does it ever.)

Helena returns to her cooking, but she never forgets Myka's presence. When she turns on a little music, she makes a self-conscious joke about her newfound fascination with Duke Ellington - purely for Myka's benefit. When she chops the onions, she feeds Myka a few dice from her hands and presses a promisory peck against her forehead. When she fetches some sort of dish from a cupboard behind Myka, she tweaks Myka's nipple as she walks back around.

At one point, Helena asks, "How are your knees holding up, darling?"

"Fine, Helena," says Myka. They will hurt when she tries to stand, and maybe again in the morning, but she knows she will love that pain for its source.

Her mistress is silent for a few minutes, likely handling some bit of meal preparation, and then Helena's hands are in Myka's hair, brushing it back where she hadn't realized it had fallen into her face. A hairband snaps into place in an expert motion, and then Helena, Myka thinks, steps back. "What about your wrists?"

Myka tests them obediently. They are wrapped in a piece of cloth secured by a clever knot. She thinks the cloth might tear if she pulled with her entire strength, but she is not certain. Her shoulders will hurt in the morning as well, so Myka says, "Fine, Helena."

"Good. Let's get you up."

And Myka lets herself lean into Helena as they work to get her up, unable to balance herself, and lets herself be led to a chair in - if her feet remembered the steps - the dining area. Helena leaves her there for a moment.

Myka realizes she is grinning, and must have been for some time. The teasing and the touching from the kitchen and the physical and verbal rewards Helena have doled out for her good behavior have left her pleasantly wet. She is probably staining the chair with it, but she decides not to worry about it. If her mistress wants it that way, that is how it will be. It isn't so strong a feeling she could not set it aside, anyway; it is the way she always feels when she sees Helena, merely turned up several degrees.

Footsteps approach, and then something is set down in front of her, and then Helena's hands are on the knot that binds her arms. The cloth comes loose, and Myka slowly shifts her arms, mindful of the feeling of her shoulders, until they are at rest. Helena is the one who removes the blindfold.

Myka blinks at the meal in front of her. "Beef Wellington," she says.

"I know it's a little out of fashion," Helena says, failing to keep the fringe of anxiety from her voice. "But I learned the recipe from Victoria Hamilton, who would have been the Duchess of Wellington in a more enlightened time. I know you don't think much of English cuisine, but I remembered this and I thought I might change your mind."

Myka waits as Helena crosses to the other side of the little table and takes her own seat.

"Well?" says Helena. "Eat!"

So Myka saws off a small piece and puts it into her mouth. Her eyes widen. "Oh my God," she says - or tries to say, at any rate, through a mouthful of food.

"Swallow first," her mistress demands.

Myka takes only another second to taste it, and then does. "Helena, this is amazing," she says.

"I'm pleased you think so," says Helena, who cuts off a slice from her own plate. "One other thing. If you're good, after dinner I'm going to fuck you into the bed until you pass out."

Myka freezes. Her _mind_ freezes. Her _fork_ freezes, halfway to her mouth. Had she been comfortably wet before? Her pussy, the only part of her not frozen, is, for a second, her entire existence.

"I said eat," Helena reminds her dangerously.

 _Right._ She puts the forkful in her mouth.

"But I haven't decided which strap-on I'm going to use."

This time she chokes. She will swear, in this moment, that Helena exaggerates that accent just to turn her on more. If _more_ is possible. No, it probably isn't. She forces herself to chew the morsel she has already, swallow it, and lower her fork back to her plate. If she is very careful, she thinks, she could cut off another bite without slicing up her thumb.

"I think the orange one, with those lovely ridges that rub your lips with every stroke."

"Helena," Myka says pathetically. She can't help but squeeze her thighs together. All this anticipation is too much for her.

For once, Helena obliges her, going back to her own meal. Myka makes an effort to ignore the feeling and, finally, to take another bite. And then another.

And then another.

Helena's wicked smile flickers back, and she says, "The purple one is bigger, though. I know how it stretches you until you scream."

"Fuck!" Myka's silverware clatters. She half-reaches and stops herself, and looks back across the table. She has to shift in her seat, in a way she knows must look obscene, just to make it from this moment to the next. "Please, Helena."

"Is this what I do to you?"

That accent again.

"So needy for me? So wet you can't do anything else?"

"Yes, Helena," she begs. "Please."

And, thank God, this demigoddess relents. "You may please yourself."

In a second, Myka's hands are running over her own body. She tries not to focus on her clit, to touch at her arms and her breasts first, but it's mostly a lost cause. She holds out for ten seconds, and then she's mostly rubbing her clit and humping the chair and groaning.

Her eyes have gone unfocused and her head has slumped forward, so she doesn't see Helena move. She just hears the voice in her ear, and the voice says, "This is because you're mine, darling. This is because you can't stop yourself from being mine."

Myka nods. The words are true but unimportant. What's important is that Helena keep talking like that.

"In this moment, you are perfect because you are mine. You think you touch yourself, but those are my hands on you. Those are my urges which drive you. Your desperation for relief is mine. Your anticipation is mine. The tiny fear that it might be my whim to leave you desperate on the edge is mine. The knowledge that you will stop if I tell you, even now, is mine."

Lost in the forthright rhythm, Myka loses the senses of her own extremities and of her breath and of her mind. She thinks she's still nodding and she must still be rubbing herself, because she knows she's getting closer.

"The unasked need to wait for permission is mine," says Helena.

"Please!"

"Darling, come for me," says Helena.

And Myka does. It must be something spectacular to watch. The feeling is so overwhelming she can't process it. She definitely screams. It must be only two or three seconds, but she feels, individually, herself shaking, her mistress's hands coming up to secure her, her oversensitive nerves rebelling at contact, her jerking violently away from it, her nearly taking the chair over, and Helena grasping her again more firmly.

It's not the biggest orgasm Helena's given her. It's not in the top ten. It's still awesome.

Helena says, "Can we get back to the evening I had planned now?"


End file.
